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Tuesday, August 28, 2012

It was late at night in the kitchen,
but the Kitchen Cabinet was still discussing what to do with the country, now
that they had accidentally taken control of it. As on previous evenings, the
discussion seemed to be going nowhere.

This high level intellectual
discussion was suddenly interrupted by Cycle Mata, who had been sitting at the
kitchen table playing with his jig-saw of Zambia. ‘I think I’ve got the answer,’
he said, as he moved one of the jig-saw pieces. ‘If I move Northern Province
down to Eastern Province then all the Bemba will become farmers.’

‘Hurray,’ they all applauded politely.
‘What a strategist! What a genius! Another Napoleon come to lead us!’

Cycle Mata was so encouraged by such
high praise that he now slid Eastern Province to the edge of the table and let
it drop down onto the floor. ‘And the Easterners can go down to Matebeleland,
where my friend Robber Mugabby will know what to do with them.’

But this remark failed to raise a
second round of applause, and the kitchen fell quiet as Axe Chikwale reached
for his whisky bottle.

At last the Great Bag broke the
silence. ‘What we need is a coup d’etat,’ he declared.

Dotty Scotty opened one eye and
scratched his dandruff. ‘My dear fellow, were you ever to consult a dictionary
you would discover that coup d’etat means using force to illegally capture
state power. It may perhaps have escaped your attention, but we have already captured
state power.’

‘Obviously,’ sighed the Great Bag of
Maize, with his usual contempt for the limited intelligence of the educated, ‘we
shall not be the ones doing it. The coup d’etat will be mounted by the
opposition. They have been calling us sleepy fools with no ideas and openly
saying that they want to take over the government.’

‘So you want to let them do it?’ asked
Dotty Scotty.

The Great Bag slowly leant forward and
took a large spoonful of caviar from the bowl in the middle of the table and plastered
it onto a huge lump of nshima, which he then shoved into his sloppy cavernous
mouth. Finally, after swallowing this generous slice of the national budget, he
looked towards Dotty and said sarcastically ‘Rather than waiting for them do
it, I thought it might be better to catch them while they are still planning
it.’

‘And how are you going to catch them
planning it?’ wondered Dotty.

As he spoke, there was a loud snore
from under the table, and the Great Bag angrily aimed a kick at the unconscious
body of Eager Bungle, Minister for Home Invasions and Fishing Expeditions. ‘He’s
been completely drunk,’ shouted the Great Bag of Maize, ‘since we allowed him to
confiscate all the tujilijili. If I had his job I would have thrown all these
coup plotters in jail months ago!’

This remark seemed to divert Cycle
Mata’s interest away from his jig-saw. ‘Great Bag of Maize, I hereby appoint
you as Minister of the newly combined Ministry of Patriotic Fighters, Home
Invasions and Fishing Expeditions. Eager Bungle now becomes the fourth Deputy
Minister in the newly created Ministry of Alcoholic Rehabiliation.’

‘Hurray,’ they all cheered. ‘A new Napoleon to lead us out of national confusion!’

‘Give me another Napoleon tujilijili,’
said a slurred voice from under the table.

‘My plan is simple and three-fold,’
replied the Great Bag. ‘Firstly I shall have my army surround State House to
shoot down the Bullet that the coup plotters fired last November in their
attempt to assassinate our Beloved Leader.’

‘If it was fired last November,
shouldn’t it have arrived by now?’

‘It was very slow moving. Intelligence
information is that they used Bullet instead of Boom.’

‘And the second part of the plan?’

‘I shall have my army surround the
opposition HQ in Lagos Road, and then send my bombers to destroy the inflammatory
material they intended to use against the government.’

‘What inflammatory material is that?’

‘They have stolen medical records
showing that three quarters of the Cabinet comes from Kasama.’

‘That information is surely incorrect,’
said Cycle Mata sternly.

‘They deliberately selected that information to mislead the
public,’ explained the Great Bag. ‘It so happens that I weigh 750kg, whereas the combined weight of all the others in the Cabinet adds up to only 250kg.’

‘And the third part of your plan?’

‘As the coup plotters flee the bombs,
they will be found guilty of attacking us as they hit their heads against our
batons and rifle butts.’

‘Very good,’ said Cycle Mata. ‘This
will teach the opposition not to tell lies about us.’

­­­­­­­­­­­­­____________________

The next afternoon the Kitchen Cabinet
was sitting around the kitchen table awaiting news of the coup d’etat.
Suddenly the Great Bag’s phone rang. ‘Hallo? Hallo? You bombed what? Where? You
eedjit, I said Lagos Road, not Lagos. What? Declared war? Oh My God!’

He turned to the others. ‘Nigeria has
declared war!’

‘Oh good,’ said Dotty Scotty. ‘This
will unite the people against the common enemy, and we shall have to lock up
all the subversive elements that might undermine national unity!’

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

I found Sara
already at breakfast, largely hidden behind the Daily
Nation which was propped up against the huge teapot that she inherited from her mother. ‘Good morning darling,’ I
said, as I sat down and poured myself a bowl of cornflakes. ‘What’s the news
this morning? What’s Cycle Mata done now?’

‘He’s been deported,’ she replied.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I laughed. ‘He’s the
one who does the deporting, so how can he be deported?’

‘I only know what I read in the
paper,’ she said. ‘It says here that reliable sources from within State House
have confirmed that Cycle Mata was helicoptered out of State House in the early
hours of Tuesday morning.’

‘Ha ha,’ I laughed, ‘did he serve
himself with the deportation order?’

‘According to this report,’ said Sara,
‘it was all arranged very smoothly. ‘He was just told that he was being flown
to Mpulungu, where he would officially designate two new provinces and twelve
new districts in the area which was previously known as Lake Tanganyika.’

‘Well,’ I admitted, ‘that bit
certainly rings true. It was a project very dear to his heart.’

‘But instead,’ Sara explained, ‘he was
flown to Dar-es-Salaam.’

‘Of course,’ I laughed, ‘there’s
always been the suspicion that he’s really a Tanzanian. Perhaps he’ll do better
there. And he’ll be able to create even more provinces in the Indian Ocean.’

‘You don’t believe this story, do
you?’

‘When you’ve been in the newspaper
business as long as I have,’ I said, ‘you learn to be skeptical. Yesterday’s
screaming headline on the front page is tomorrow’s little apology on page
twelve. Besides, it’s only the Minister for Bullets and Deportations who can
issue a deportation order, not reliable sources from within State House.’

‘You’ve been so busy scoffing at the
story,’ said Sara, ‘that I haven’t yet been able to read you the quote from the
Minister, Mr Eager Bungle, where he confirms that on Monday night he issued a deportation
order against Cycle Mata.’

‘Poof,’ I poofed. ‘If you believe
that, you’ll believe anything. What reason did he give for deporting Cycle Mata?’

‘What a silly question,’ Sara laughed.
‘Everybody knows that the Minister of Bullets and Deportations issues a
deportation order when he decides that a person is a threat to peace and good
order.’

‘Ah ha!’ I laughed. ‘Now I see the
minister was put in an awkward position, with all the rising public resentment
against the broken promises, firing on peaceful demonstrators and malicious
prosecution of political opponents. Ha ha! Obviously he realized that Cycle
Mata was a serious threat to peace and good order. His public duty was clear! He
had no option but to issue the order!’

‘There must be more to it than that,’
Sara objected. ‘Surely these ministers have to take their instructions from Cycle
Mata.’

‘Exactly,’ I laughed. ‘That’s why I say
the story is ridiculous.’

‘No it isn’t,’ said Sara, as she read
another bit from the front page. ‘The reliable source from State House explains
what happened. It seems that, late on Monday night, Cycle Mata was meeting with
his Kitchen Cabinet when…’

‘Kitchen Cabinet?’ I wondered. ‘What’s
that?’

‘You don’t know them?’ laughed Sara.
‘They’re the little gang of unelected mafia who actually run the country.
People like Mulembe Cheato, Red Mwimbi, Mumbwe Malole and Splinter Kapimbe.
Apparently that fateful Monday night one of these slimy creatures attempted to ingratiate himself by saying Cycle Mata, O Beloved Master, your ministers are just office boys who will do whatever you tell them. And another of the odious flatterers
said Yes, you are such a Mighty Leader,
they respect you so much, they’ll do whatever you say! Then another went
further, saying Your word is law O King! Even
if you phoned Eager Bungle and told him to deport you, the halfwit would do it straight
away!'

‘Then apparently Cycle Mata got
annoyed with this nauseating and dangerous flattery, and reacted angrily by
saying OK, let’s try it! So he phoned
the mentally challenged Eager Bungle and shouted Send me a deportation order immediately, otherwise I’m demoting you to
DC in Mwinilunga!’

‘So the whole thing was just a joke,’
I laughed. ‘A storm in a teacup. Just another cock-up from a confused and incompetent government, drunk with power. Bungle can put things straight by just admitting that he made a mistake and reversing the deportation order!’

‘But according to this report,’ Sara
laughed, as she read again from the newspaper, ‘it’s not as easy as that. Bungle now says that the deportation order can be
reversed only if the proper channels are followed.’

‘But what are the proper channels?’

‘Obviously,' said Sara, 'He has to get new instructions from the Great Leader.’

‘But that’s impossible!’ I gasped. ‘If
Cycle Mata has been deported, then there’s no legitimate authority to give him
fresh instructions! The government has collapsed!’

‘Don't worry about that,’ laughed Sara, ‘A small country like ours can’t afford a
huge expensive government, we’re better off without them. Now we shall be able
to afford to build more universities and create more jobs and get rid of the
infestors and parasites. Now Cycle Mata’s promises will all come true at
last! More money in our pockets!’

‘It’s too good to be true!’ I shouted,
as I grabbed the newspaper from behind the teapot and read the headline: HAKAINDE ARRESTED FOR DRIVING TOO SLOWLY AND
REFUSING TO BRIBE A POLICEMAN.

‘I knew it!' I laughed in triumph. 'I
said from the start that I didn’t believe it! You were just having me on! You made
it all up!'

‘Read the Hakainde story,’ she
laughed. ‘It’s even more unbelievable!’

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

‘Mr Ha Ha,’ said the judge, as he
leant towards the accused, ‘you have been charged with landing as mfwiti on the roof
the girls’ hostel of Evelyn Horny College. You were found naked in the girls’
shower, thereby causing a great itching of the girls’ private parts and giving all the students such a terrible fright as to cause a massive and simultaneous blocking of all
the toilets. What is your explanation for your inexplicable behaviour?’

‘Ha ha ha,’ laughed Ha Ha, ‘I wonder
what is the explanation for your inexplicable accusations? I did not arrive by mfwiti,
nor was I found naked. I walked fully
clothed through the front gate and talked to some of the girls. They told me about the filthy condition of the
bathrooms that had caused itching of their private parts.’

‘I’m not sure if you appreciate the
seriousness of the charges against you,’ said the judge sternly. ‘You are
charged with several counts of witchcraft which were deliberately aimed at
bringing this government into disrepute. With your dreadful spells, curses,
charms and incantations you have destroyed the students’ itch for education and
replaced it with a carnal itch in their private parts.’

‘Nonsense,’ laughed Ha Ha, who was
clearly enjoying this moment of fame provided free of charge by the government.
‘The problem of itching was caused by the Minister for Closing Colleges, the notorious
Pompous Professor Red Hot Piri-Piri, who got the students into such a red hot
rage that they were itching to…’

‘That’s another of the charges against
you,’ interrupted the judge. ‘Insulting the minister is bordering on insulting
the appointing authority, which is bordering on defamation of the president,
which is bordering on contravention of the Section 23 of the Suspension of Free
Speech Act of 1893.’

‘This trial is just part of a witch hunt,’
sneered Ha Ha. ‘You are just trying to blame imaginary witches for turning the
Patriotic Fanfare into the Pabwato Fiasco!’

‘Ha ha, Mr Ha Ha,’ sneered the judge,
‘suddenly you seem to know a lot about witchcraft! I hope you also know that
witchcraft is illegal under Section 257 Paragraph 279 Clause 59 of the Penal
Code of 1892. We must observe the Rule of Law.’

‘Yes,’
muttered someone in the crowd, ‘We must observe the Rule of Law!’

‘Where
is the Rule of Law?’ said another, as he looked around, and others looked under
their seats.’

‘Perhaps
the Rule of Law went to the toilet,’ said somebody else.

‘There’s
certainly a nasty smell from the somewhere,’ chuckled another.

‘Silence!’ shouted the judge.

‘You are also accused of using your mfwiti
to send a platoon of the Punching Fist Militia to Sudan, and then accusing the
Perfect Farce of sending them there for military training. This dangerous long
distance witchcraft was calculated to make the PF look foolish.’

‘They need no assistance from me,’
laughed Ha Ha. ‘They do it very well all by themselves.’

‘Ha
ha ha ha,’ laughed the crowd.

‘You are also accused,’ continued the
judge, ‘of putting powerful muti all around the entrance to Collum Mine to
prevent it being visited by mine inspectors, thereby causing appalling
conditions in the mine. That is how you deliberately caused a riot just to
embarrass the government.

‘There is also evidence,’ said the
judge, ‘that the same evil muti was used to disorientate the police when they
attempted to question you at Lusaka Central Torture Station. This muti caused
police to fire tear gas canisters into a closed space, thereby making you
entirely responsible for their unprofessional and murderous behaviour.

‘The government’s entire programme of
implementing its election promises has had to be suspended in order to counter
your relentless programme of subversive anti-government witchcraft. You are
therefore also being charged with treason.

‘I now adjourn this case until next
month, when you will be found guilty and sentenced. Just count yourself lucky
that you live in a democracy where we follow the due process of law.’

Now the judge turned to the Clerk of
Court. ‘Is that the last case for this morning?’

‘No, M’Lord,’ answered the Clerk, as a
tall bearded man in a long white cassock appeared in the dock. ‘There’s one
more.’

‘One more witchcraft?’

‘Even worse,’ answered the Clerk.
‘Christianity!’

The judge looked severely towards the
accused. ‘What is your name?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he replied.

‘Don’t be funny with me,’ snapped the
judge. ‘Taking the name of the Lord in vain is an offence under the Ten
Commandments Act of 4372BC, Section 5.’

Then he turned to the Clerk. ‘What
else has he done?’

‘He announced from his pulpit that the
poor are getting poorer and the rich are getting richer, contrary to the
prophecy in the Gospel according to St Michael.’

‘Verily I say unto you,’ said Jesus,
‘I have never heard of your St Michael, and answer only to the authority of My
Father who is in Heaven.’

‘Heresy!’ declared the judge. ‘In our
Christian Nation the authority of scripture must be respected! I order him to
be deported immediately!’

No sooner had he spoken than Jesus
began to rise vertically from the dock. Up he floated, up through the high open
window, up and away.

‘That’s witchcraft!’ said the judge,
as all eyes were raised to Heaven. ‘I should have given him five years for
contravening the Law of Gravity!’

‘Two
thousand years we waited for Him to return,’ said a voice from the back, ‘and He
didn’t last five minutes.’

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

As the picture on our ancient
Supersonic came into fuzzy focus, we were presented with two rows of men,
facing each other in sullen confrontation. In the foreground stood a line of soldiers,
guns at the ready, and pointing at an opposing line of thin and starving
workers, dressed in rags. Behind them was an ugly black entrance to a mine,
just big enough to take a small railway line down to the depths of hell. Over
the top of entrance was written Colonial Mine.

‘Good
God!’ I exclaimed, ‘What’s going on? Is this Afghanistan? Or the Americans
bringing democracy to Iraq?’

‘Worse
than that,’ said Sara grimly, ‘This looks more like labour relations at one of
our mines. They’re probably conducting wage negotiations.’

‘What?' I gasped. 'Conducted by a three star general in full ceremonial uniform?’

‘That
must be the Military Attaché of the Imperial Power,’ explained Sara.

As we spoke the Military Attaché opened
his attaché case and pulled out a pile of pieces of cardboard all connected by
string, took hold of two sticks and held them high, and, hey presto! suddenly there
appeared a cardboard puppet.

‘The
Imperial Power never speaks directly to us,’ explained Sara, ‘they always speak
through one of their local puppets.’

‘What’s
the puppet’s name?’ I wondered.

‘Do puppets have names?' she chuckled. 'He’s
just one of the nameless members of the Puppet Front. He’s probably the
Minister for Starvation Wages.’

‘But
where does he come from?’ I persisted.

‘From
the Puppet Factory,' laughed Sara. ‘That's where they all come from. The first thing any Imperial
Power does is to set up a Puppet Factory. Then they bow to the puppets they have manufactured for themselves, and call them the Puppet Front.’

Now the Military Attache bent down and
whispered something into the ear of his personal Puppet, who then spoke with borrowed
ferocity to the hapless starving miners. ‘You useless donkeys,' began the captive Puppet Fraud, 'you show no
gratitude. Your Beloved Puppet Fuhrer is working so hard to find more investors that
he has had to double his own salary. Therefore there is no money to pay you
more!’

‘He’s
calling them donkeys,’ I protested. ‘But he’s the one who looks like a
donkey!’

‘Some
people can’t recognise their own inadequacies,’ explained Sara. ‘Instead they project
their own inadequacies onto other people.’

At last one starving skeleton plucked up
courage and shouted at the Puppet Fraud, ‘We want our housing allowance!’

As the Military Attache again
whispered in Puppet’s ear, the Puppet shouted back ‘You donkeys do not need
houses, you’ve always lived in kraals!’

‘We want transport money!’ shouted
another.

‘This is a Christian Nation! The Lord gave donkeys four legs for their own transport!’

‘The Imperial Experts have no skills,’
shouted the angry miners, as the Military Attache continued to busily chew the
ear of the Puppet, and the soldiers levelled the barrels of their rifles at the ungrateful mob of miners.

Now the Puppet assumed a very serious
and offended expression. ‘Do not insult the brotherly love between our two
countries. Our friends have come here to help you. They have certificates in
carpentry, drilling, digging, welding and escaping from prison. Others have
diplomas in whipping and shooting.’

‘Just give us the money!’

‘However,’ continued Puppet Farce, ‘my
Imperial brother and I have discussed your plight and we are prepared to be
generous. We have agreed between the two of us, and on your behalf, that if you
go back to work immediately we are prepared to forget your previous bad behaviour of refusing to work for nothing. Of course we shall have to fire the ringleaders.’

‘Just give us
enough to feed our children!’

‘Only education
can help your children. In this regard, I am please to inform you had my Imperial brother has also intimated to me that the
Empire is planning to build a university in Lusaka where your sons and
grandsons can learn drilling and digging. Then your sons and grandsons will
become Mining Experts, and the Imperial Experts can go back to home, and this
mine will be yours forever. Your own land will finally be yours!’

‘This mine is
very safe,’ retorted Puppet Frantic. ‘I’m told by the mine manager that there
have never been more than ten deaths in any one week!’

But as he spoke
there was a rumbling sound from below. Then the ground began to sink under
Puppet Fright and his platoon of shivering soldiers. With no further warning, and very suddenly, they all disappeared into a large
hole in the ground, leaving behind a cloud of rising dust. The miners looked
over the edge of this instant precipice, and crossed themselves earnestly, thanking the Lord for their own deliverance from this dreadful collumity.

‘It’s not just us,’
said one miner sadly, ‘the entire country is on the edge of disaster.’

‘I suppose,’
said another, ‘that we’ll all go to jail for this.’

Now the TV screen was suddenly filled with the seriously
sleepy face of Comatoze Mwanza. ‘I hope you enjoyed our Muvi Historical
Documentary on the Miners’ Riots of 1947. Standby for the news, which follows shortly.’

‘I hope you didn’t think that the documentary was
part of tonight’s news!’ laughed Sara.